Chapter 90

WEDNESDAY NOON — SEPTEMBER 25

"Are you okay?" Diana asked, her look intense, as soon as she was in the house.

Joyce hugged her. "I love you. I love all of you," she said looking around just before Caitlin enfolded her in her arms.

After a short hug, Joyce pushed back, no tears, nothing. "Yeah, it's a bit ... well... different to realize that I'm walking on my dried blood under this drop cloth," she said, looking down at the floor and sliding her foot back and forth to bunch up the plastic a little. "And that stain over there," she said indicating the wall, "is where a good part of Crawford's brains wound up when my round went through his stupid head. But this place certainly isn't as gross as some I've seen, and heck, his body is long gone."

Alesha motioned to the corner of the couch. The end of a cinder block was just visible where a leg should be. "I got the couch down the road a little way, and a guy helped me get it on top of my car. I eased home with the thing balanced on top. Then Crawford helped me get it in the house later that day. It had a leg missing, and was pretty beaten up, but I found a concrete block out back, and ... almost got Joyce killed with it," she finished, her voice choking.

"Bullshit," Joyce interrupted. "You didn't do a damned thing wrong. You're to be admired for what you've done to survive. Now let's get your things and go get your check."

The others went on into town to wait as Jeff and Alesha Turcott drove into the lot of the used car dealer in Jeff's truck. Joyce had driven Alesha's car after Jeff had advised Alesha not to drive it back to the lot in case Lennie tried to block it in and keep it away from her. Personally, Jeff had rather just buy her another car and save the hassle, but he could certainly understand righteous indignation. Alesha was pissed.

Alesha had talked with Lennie twice on the phone, but each time, he had said that he owed her nothing, but had put her two-week salary toward what she owed on the car she had bought from him. When she insisted that she had paid the full amount, already, he had just laughed and hung up on her.

"Look, we can just have Fontaine sue him..." Jeff had argued.

"No. I want to see him face to face. He cheats everybody he fires like this. He always keeps their last check. The son-of-a-bitch isn't going to intimidate me. I've been shit on enough. If you don't go with me, then I'll go by myself. I know that Jesse might lose his job if he went, because Lennie could just say that Jesse intimidated him into paying me something he didn't owe me — that he wouldn't have done it if the deputy hadn't been there. But that asshole is not going to steal my money without a fight."

Jeff had sighed. "All right. I'll go with you, but let's do it this way..."

Turcott stormed into Lennie's office, Jeff barely managing to get in behind her before she slammed the door.

Jeff stepped over and set a recorder on Lennie's desk. "Just so you don't change things around from the way they actually happen," Jeff said, glaring at the fat man behind the desk. "The recorder is on."

"I want my paycheck?" Alesha interrupted. "You steal the last check from everybody around here that you decide to fire. I was in the hospital. I couldn't come to work. Fire me, you can, but you're not going to cheat me out of my pay. My rent is past due..."

"Ralph has already kicked your ass out. Or will when he sees you."

"Yeah, I figured that your suck buddy would do that, so I've been by and gotten my things. And I didn't get one damn thing that I didn't carry into that house. So don't you or your buddy start any shit about it."

"You don't have a check. I took the money from your last two week's salary and applied it to the car you were buying from me. No sense me taking a loss over your problems. Hell, they told me you couldn't hear. You seem to be doing okay, now."

"My physical problems are none of your damn business. I came to get my check. And you know that I paid for that car."

"My records say you haven't, and they're what count."

"Not necessarily," Jeff finally said, putting a copy of Alesha's Bill of Sale and a copy of the title on Lennie's desk. Those are copies, in case you decide to tear them up or something. We took the time to stop on the way to take care of that little detail. You'll note that the Bill of Sale is stamped Paid In Full with your signature, along with Ms. Turcott's, plus your shop foreman as a witness. Also the title is free and clear with no liens against the vehicle.

"I'm here as ... well, just call me a mediator. Alesha has told me of your schemes about federal and state income tax as well as FICA withholdings for your employees. Seems like there's a good chance that you're cutting your people a lot more than you are actually turning in to the government. With twelve employees — all afraid of losing their jobs if they rock the boat — you set aside a tidy little sum in a year's time. Your turnover rate is pretty high, to use the mildest terms, and you seem to always hold their last check for something they owe you for. Between that big body shop and your used car business, plus a few 'sidelines, ' you probably turn a very nice profit.

"I've already talked to my lawyer and he, in the spirit, of being fair, suggested that Alesha talk to you in person and bring the Bill of Sale, in case you might have forgotten that the transaction was complete. Or maybe that 'transaction' was supposed to include the sex you were trying to coerce out of her, before she got her car and check?"

Lennie started to say something when Jeff continued, "Your ball game, Mr. Car Dealer. We don't want a penny that isn't owed to her. Not one. But your argument about her still owing for the car is invalidated by the Bill of Sale right in front of you. Now, you can argue about the paycheck. I have no way to prove that, but an audit of your records by the IRS will eventually dig up the truth, and probably a lot more about the truth if Ms. Turcott is correct. As best I remember hearing on the news, the IRS pays a significant percentage of any moneys collected. Pays to the person turning in the perpetrator, that is. Ms. Turcott might just come out of this with a little nest egg.

"Your choice. Might want to contact your attorney. We're leaving." Jeff put a slip of paper down on Lennie's desk. "Here's an address that you can mail her check to, if you decide that you might have been in error and do owe her a full two-week check, after all. It's my attorney's address. Just address the letter to Ms. Turcott at his office. They will get it to her."

Jeff picked up the recorder — still on — told Turcott, "Let's go." Stepping through the door behind Alesha, he closed the door, not really hard, but hard enough to sound aloud. Turning the recorder off and dropping it into his pocket, he stepped back through the door, closing it behind him. Before Lennie could even blink, Jeff reached across his desk and grabbed him by the shirt, jerking him to his feet.

After a short, whispered conversation into Lennie's ear while Jeff concentrated with all his faculties, he slammed Lennie back into his seat, walked calmly through the door, closing it quietly behind him, then on out into the lot with Alesha walking beside him.

A wet spot slowly formed under Lennie's spreading ass.

"What was that about?" Alesha asked, a puzzled expression on her face as they walked toward Jeff's truck.

"Oh, I forgot to pick up the copies of the Bill of Sale and the title," the tall man said, nonchalantly, as he handed them to her. Then in the same breath, "Let's meet up with my wives and get a bite of lunch. I'm starved."

"You're always starved," Turcott said, eyeing him suspiciously, but unable to notice anything wrong.

Quinton Tate, his wife, Virginia, and sister-in-law, Elizabeth, had talked for a while. Well, more accurately, the women had talked while the Sheriff sat slumped on the couch between them.

Finally, "Alright, I've got a lot to assimilate into my tired old brain. But the both of you are still dancing around what I asked about your daughters. Elizabeth, you felt like you were lying to me when I asked if you were having sex with them, but..."

Elizabeth had returned to the other side of Quinton, and each of the women had continued to hold one of his hands as they had talked — and cried. Elizabeth cleared her throat, but hesitated. "I ... guess what you're picking up on is that I do feel a little bit guilty. The girls and I still sleep together, and we do sleep ... nude. But all we've done is cuddle."

She sighed and leaned against the back of the couch. "Cindy has had two dates. Only two and she's eighteen. And Rachel hasn't had any. Cindy made her dates bring her home early both times when they tried to feel her up. Rachel flatly refuses to consider dating."

"They're lesbians," Quinton interjected. "I've known them all my life. Hell, they feel like my daughters, but I never picked up on that..."

"They're not lesbians," Elizabeth interjected. "There are not any lesbians in my family — or yours," she added. "They just ... have a problem."

"And..." Tate said.

"And ... I don't want to talk about it right now. But I did not lie to you. My daughters and I have not made love. We've held each other, and after Scott died, we spent a lot of time holding each other and crying ourselves to sleep, but I've never touched them in that way. Never."

"Something still seems wrong when you talk about it." Sighing, "I don't want to discuss this any more right now, though."

Both women tried to snuggle with him, but he gently shrugged them off. "I'm going to put on some work clothes and catch up on a couple of things that I've been putting off around the barn."

"Baby, we don't want you to be alone right now," Virginia said, again trying to kiss her husband.

"I need to think, and I do that best when I'm doing something with my hands," he said, getting up.

Neither woman wanted to give up trying to reason with him, but both also knew that it was useless trying to change his mind once it was made up. He went back to the bedroom, removed his badge, collar brass and name tag from his shirt, putting them in the little antique cup he kept them in on the dresser. Tossing his shirt and pants into the hamper, he slipped on a shirt and jeans, pulled on a pair of work boots and headed for the barn.

All the horses came into the barn trying to entice him into giving them another treat, but when he got his equipment belt, hammer and crowbar from the shop, they gave up and went back into the pasture. He spent a couple of hours tightening a sagging gate and replacing some rotten boards on the back of the barn, his mind far from the menial tasks his hands automatically performed. Maybe a little too far. As he drove the last nail, he hit the wrong nail, namely the one on his left thumb.

"Shit!" he yelled out, then stuck the thumb into his mouth for a second, sucking on it. Looking at the thumb a moment later, he decided that a Band-Aid would probably be a good idea. There was a little blood leaking from around both sides of the nail, but the pain had eased off to an annoying throbbing. Restarting the nail, this time far more carefully, he drove it in with three hard licks of the hammer.

Well, that damn sure got my attention off the shit that's happened this afternoon. Teach my dumb ass to pay attention to what I'm doing instead of feeling sorry for myself.

After putting his tools up, he walked on back to the house. Inside, he called out to the women, who were in the kitchen. "I'm going to take a nap."

Virginia stuck her head out of the kitchen doorway. "Are you okay? Baby, I..."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just going to take a nap. Don't make something major out of it," he said crossly, going on down the hall.

In the bathroom, he washed his hands, poured alcohol on his thumb, then put an antibiotic salve around the edges of the nail where it continued to bleed a little. Choosing a band aide that seemed about the right size, he put it on, pulling it gently tight against the little injury. Damn, that thing is sore, already. How fucking dumb can you be? When the Captain sees that, he's gonna have to know what happened. As soon as I tell him, he'll razz my ass. I'll be hearing jokes about it all day. Grinning, and not even realizing it, he walked over to the bed, kicked his boots off and fell on his back, sighing.

Virginia opened the oven door a little and pushed the tines of a carving fork into the roast that was almost done.

"Oh, that smells heavenly," Elizabeth said. "Do you suppose he'll even notice that you're having his favorite dinner?"

"It's just about there," Virginia said closing the oven door. "Roast, baby carrots, creamed potatoes and gravy, English peas, with rolls and honey. And I'm making enough to fill even Quinton up — I hope. Of course," she added, "I would be very pleased if I were wrong and he ate it all. I'm more worried that he won't have an appetite at all."

Putting the cooking fork in the sink, she turned to her sister. "Now what's this about being in love with my husband? I knew you loved him, but I didn't know that you were in love with him. I thought you were madly in love with your husband. You always acted like it."

Elizabeth, sitting on a stool a few feet away, took a sip of her coffee and put the cup down on the counter. "Sis, I ... Okay, here it is, for bad or worse. I was madly in love with Quinton from the first time I saw him when you brought him in to introduce him to our parents. But I was just a kid — at least to him. I didn't stand a chance, and even if I had, it wasn't long until you came in all bubbly from a date and told me how much you were in love with him."